Page 56 of The Grumpy Billionaire

Wild energy swoops through me. It’s not anger. It’s not anything that I know.

Judging from my shirt and the hackberry tree in the background, it was taken when I was barbecuing with Jenny and Warren Woodward this past July Fourth weekend when I was in town arranging various things for my parents.

My thumbs move furiously over the keypad.

Me: you know AI could have done this.

Stella: It would take your tech guys exactly two minutes to figure out the picture is real. But just in case…

Three dots appear and disappear.

An odd lightness fills my chest. You’d think I’d feel dread, but this light helium feeling is quite the opposite.

A new image comes through. It’s the original—Warren Woodward and me at the grill. Scrawled across the top of the image, with the pen tool set to pink and ridiculously thick, is “Jennifer Woodward—309-555-0938” and “Warren Woodward—309-555-4559.” And two additional words: “chef’s kiss.”

It’s the vending machine all over again.

She wouldn’t. Would she?

Wulfric would lose his mind if he found out I wasn’t really allergic to pineapple, but I feel this curious lack of concern about it all. I just need to see her.

I stalk down the hall. People get out of my way, as usual. When I reach the admin pool with its fishbowl windows, everybody looks down.

Except Stella. She kisses the tips of her fingers and splays them outward.Chef’s kiss.

My pulse races.

It’s here I come to my senses. What am I doing? What?

I make my way through the building and down the stairwell, down to the street, and out to the corner where the bracing October wind whips off the Hudson. I let it lick my skin.

Calling her to my office to discuss not seeing each other? What bullshit. I’m lying to myself, plain and simple.

I model the effect of ridiculous human behaviors on the markets. I don’t participate in them.

Kissing her, touching her, nearly fucking her, Jesus! Stella is off-limits. That is a code; a code is a promise to the world as well as a promise to myself.

The fact that I broke my code doesn’t mean I should abandon it altogether. If anything, it’s more reason to redouble my commitment.

Once a man starts breaking his codes, everything unravels.

ChapterTwenty-Five

Hugo

Two days later,she’s standing at the elevator bank, clutching a stack of files in her arms, her big everything purse slung over her shoulder. She’s in a brown skirt suit, and her hair is up in a high ponytail, dusting of freckles over her button nose very visible in the harsh office light that she’d definitely hate.

She’s with a knot of people who are all waiting to get onto one of the elevators—elevator number one, which appears to be about to arrive.

I nod and continue toward elevator five, away from everyone. I’ll take the later, less populated elevator any day of the week.

In the days since she sent the pineapple text, I haven’t called her to my office. I haven’t contacted her. I’m content to let her think she’s won. I’m making progress. Not the level of progress I need, exactly, but I’m in better shape despite everything.

I glance over and she looks away, but not before I catch the classic Stella resisting-temptation face—a glint of mischief in her eyes, lips drawn slightly to the side, as though she’s fighting to contain an inappropriate smile and whatever very wrong urge is cranking through her like a circus organ.

She’s the most distracting woman alive—she really is. But that’s on me. I put her here. I screwed up her career.

Elevator one comes. People get on, but Stella’s still standing there when the doors close. It’s just her and me now, and the rush of pleasure that flows through me is nothing short of perverse.

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